


as fire to the sun

by witching



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jon isn't actually in this but it is almost entirely About him, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Platonic Cuddling, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Things have been tense. Martin wants to believe that Jon is innocent and that he'll be back safely, and Tim thinks he's being ridiculous and naïve. They've had several shouting matches on the subject in recent weeks, but nothing they've said to each other has been nasty enough to stick. They just calm down and come back to each other and try to avoid the difficult topics, because they can't afford to not be together now.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 129





	as fire to the sun

**Author's Note:**

> \- takes place sometime between mag81 & mag92  
> \- title from sufjan stevens' "drawn to the blood"  
> \- please validate me

Martin has always tried to be a helpful sort. It's one of the best things about him, or at least he thinks it is, even if it comes partly from a place of painful insecurity about his own worth. He likes to be solid, dependable, wanted. That's how he's made himself invaluable here in the archives: maybe he hasn't got the formal qualifications, but he dotes, and he makes tea, and he tries  _ so _ hard, and that's been an important building block of his friendships with Jon and Tim and – he doesn't want to think about Sasha right now, because he keeps worrying about whether to use the present tense or the past, and then he falls into an awful cycle of thoughts about all the reasons she's probably dead, but in any case, her too. 

So it's hard, with Sasha gone and Jon missing, for Martin to really let himself  _ need _ Tim. His instincts tell him to serve, to tend, to help, but Tim doesn't seem to want any of that from him, and he doesn't really have it in him to force it. He's letting things happen, not trying so hard at the moment, just glad to have Tim close. 

Right now, they're  _ taking a break, _ resting in the basement room where Jon kept a cot for his late nights, where Martin stayed for months when he was being hunted by worms. Life was simpler, then. Martin can't help but laugh at the fact that he's feeling nostalgic about the worms, but at least – at least he somewhat knew what was going on with that ordeal. Right now, he's a sitting duck, blind and lost and clueless, and people are being murdered and Jon is missing and all Martin has is Tim.

Things have been tense. Martin wants to believe that Jon is innocent and that he'll be back safely, and Tim thinks he's being ridiculous and naïve. They've had several shouting matches on the subject in recent weeks, but nothing they've said to each other has been nasty enough to stick. They just calm down and come back to each other and try to avoid the difficult topics, because they can't afford to not be together now.

Martin doesn't really have the wherewithal, or the energy, to be embarrassed for clinging to Tim like he is. Quite literally, at the moment: he's got his arms wrapped around Tim's torso, his head resting on Tim's broad, warm chest as one of Tim's broad, warm hands idly rubs soothing strokes up and down his back.

"Do you think he's okay?" Martin asks, his voice low and thick with emotion. He knows what Tim thinks, but he knows just as well that Tim is calm enough and in a charitable enough mood that he'll tell a nice lie to comfort him. 

"I'm sure he's fine," Tim murmurs gently, and Martin feels the words rumble in his chest. "He can take care of himself."

A pitiful sniff, a shake of his head, a small grunt of protest, and Martin whines, "No, he can’t. What if the Met catch up with him?"

Tim breathes out a low, tired sigh and tamps down the urge to tell Martin that he hopes they do. "I don't know, Martin," he says, because if he tries to promise that everything will be alright, it will be too much. Even Martin can't suspend his disbelief to that extent. "I think – there's nothing we can do for him right now, and there's no point driving yourself mad over it."

"I miss him," Martin whimpers pathetically.

"I know," Tim says with a tone full of understanding and sympathy, and none of the pity and frustration he's really feeling. 

"I'm scared," says Martin, his hoarse whisper almost inaudible in the small room. 

With a deep sigh and a squeeze of Martin's shoulder, Tim repeats, "I know."

It's then that he notices Martin is crying, his body shaking as fat, hot teardrops slip from his eyes to soak through Tim's shirt. He makes the realization with a sudden pang of horrified sadness, breathes a gentle sigh.

He presses his hand into Martin's back, a warm, solid pressure to ground him and pull him closer. "I've got you," he murmurs in his pillow-soft voice, the cadence of it reassuring even if Martin can't hear the exact words. 

Gulping down mouthfuls of air as the tears flow down his cheeks, Martin screws his eyes shut tight in an effort to somewhat conceal the emotional outburst. His arms tighten around Tim's middle as he turns his face fully into the man's chest, hiding from his pitying gaze.

"I – I – I need him to come back," Martin sobs. "I need him to come back and be safe, I just – what's going to happen to him?"

"I don't know," Tim says helplessly. "I don't know what's going to happen to any of us."

Almost before he's finished speaking, Martin continues, "What if he hurts himself?"

Tim closes his eyes for a moment, feeling rather superfluous in the conversation, his patience waning but supplemented by the growing intensity of his need to soothe Martin. "He'll be fine," he sighs, knowing Martin won't believe him, might not even hear him. "Worry about yourself, Martin, you're a mess."

Martin sits up, pushes away from Tim's chest with an indignant sniffle, gives him a glare through puffy eyes.  _ "I'm _ not being framed for  _ murder, _ Tim."

Tim can't help a roll of his eyes at that, no matter how much he wants to be a comfort to Martin at the moment.  _ Framed _ is a strong word, he thinks. Given all the facts, the simplest explanation would indicate Jon as not just the prime suspect, but the only one. 

It's not that he  _ wants _ to think Jon did it. He wants him to be okay, too. He misses him, too. The difference between Tim and Martin is that Tim misses the friend Jon used to be, before the archives, before all of this, while Martin misses all of it, misses Jon as he has been in recent months, because he'll put up with anything for Jon.

Tim, on the other hand, has limits, and it turns out that what it takes for him to reach his limit is watching Martin bawl his eyes out on a regular basis over something or other that Jon has said or done. He can only handle so much of it without becoming resentful of Jon for it, and then – well, and then there’s everything else Jon has done lately. Obviously, Tim’s angry with Jon for all the sneaking and the suspicion and the potential murder and the secrecy and for disappearing now and leaving him to pick up the pieces. 

But he knows, better than anyone, that Martin feels the effects of all Jon’s actions tenfold. Tim is usually angry with Jon for at least sixteen different reasons at any given moment, but his resentment on Martin’s behalf is almost always near the top of the list. He wonders how much it would take for Martin to snap, and he has a feeling he doesn’t want to be around to see it.

For now, anyway, all he can do is comfort Martin, and it’s no comfort to remind him how badly Jon has treated him. It’s no comfort to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he stops worrying about Jon and starts taking care of himself. Tim can’t respond to Martin’s defensiveness with the truth; that will only start an argument, and he doesn’t want that right now.

"I'm sorry," he says with a great deal of effort, "come here." He snakes his arm around Martin again, pulls him closer, gently enough that he could easily resist if he was really upset with Tim.

Martin acquiesces quickly enough, but not before giving an exaggerated pout of his lips, tilting his head just so to give Tim the best view of his distress. He leans into Tim’s side again, head against his chest, and then they’re both quiet, making no sounds or movements beyond Martin’s hitched, hiccuping breaths, the pathetic sniffles, the occasional nuzzle into Tim’s chest that he knows is only Martin’s way of wiping his tears. He doesn’t mind.

After a long interlude, though his tears haven’t subsided, Martin turns his head slightly to look at Tim’s face and takes a steadying breath. "Does he –," he cuts off, swallows back a choked sob, and waits a moment before trying again. "Does he know I love him?"

Tim is nearly positive he does, even if he’s deep in denial about it, because there's only so much that willful ignorance can do in the face of something so obvious. What he can't be sure of, however, is whether it will be at all helpful for Martin to know that fact. He deliberates internally, but ultimately comes to the conclusion that there's no reason to lie to Martin now. "Yeah," he murmurs eventually, "I think he does."

Martin doesn’t reply immediately, stays quiet except for his shaky sobs and shallow, desperate inhalations, trying to calm himself enough to speak coherently. When he does, his voice is low and ragged and thick with tears. “That’s something, at least,” he mumbles, “if he – if something happens, I mean. At least he knows that.”

“Oh,  _ Martin,” _ Tim breathes, broken and gentle. 

He doesn’t know what else to say to something so  _ sad, _ but he doesn’t have much time to consider his next words before Martin moves unexpectedly, pushing himself up to kneel next to Tim. He lifts his hand to rub at his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater, only briefly, and then he surges forward and kisses Tim, quick and chaotic and messy.

Pushing him away with only a hint of reluctance, Tim huffs out a short, fond little laugh. “I don’t think now’s the time, sweetheart.”

A small whine comes up from Martin’s throat, though it’s unclear whether it’s a reaction to the endearment or the rejection. “Why not?” he asks, cozying up to Tim’s side in a way that makes Tim want to reconsider.

“You’re not really in the right state of mind,” he says.

“I am too,” Martin responds petulantly. “I’m in a fine state of mind.”

Tim moves to take both of Martin’s hands in his own, partly a gesture of affection, partly an attempt to restrain him in case he decides to try something again. Not that Tim could actually restrain Martin, or that Martin would actually try anything if Tim denied him, but – in any case, it makes Tim feel better, to have that hold on him, to squeeze his hands and feel him squeeze in return. 

He cocks his head to the side, tries not to put too much pity into the look he gives Martin. “Two minutes ago, you were crying on me over your feelings for another man,” he points out, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Martin aims for a dry kind of sarcasm, but misses the mark by a wide margin, unable to rid himself of the weepy tenor in his voice.

“Of Jon? No,” Tim answers with a small snort of incredulity. “You know I like what we have. You’re a good friend, Martin, and that’s why I – I worry about you.”

“You don’t have to,” Martin mumbles without missing a beat.

Giving him a pointed glare, Tim insists, “That’s not the point. The point is, you deserve to let yourself feel – feel  _ anything, _ really, that isn’t about him. You deserve to want for yourself, and not as some misguided tactic to distract yourself from thinking about him.”

Martin sniffs again, bites his lip, his thoughts written plainly on his face as he considers whether it would be worth the effort to get defensive or deny it. In the end, he chooses not to. “Thanks, Tim,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “It means a lot to me, how – how much you care, how nice you are to me.”

After only a moment’s hesitation, Tim pulls him into a tight embrace. Martin falls into it easily, allows Tim to hold him and press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Of course,” Tim says, his deep voice resonating against Martin’s skin. “We’ve got to stick together.”


End file.
